


i spend my money on the regular miracles

by defcontwo



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Todd versus the Ikea Bed, a struggle in several parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i spend my money on the regular miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallMeBombshell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [金钱可买，日常奇迹 / i spend my money on the regular miracles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667486) by [blurryyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurryyou/pseuds/blurryyou)
  * Inspired by [if anyone else were to kiss me, all they would taste is your name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038296) by [CallMeBombshell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell). 



Here's the thing, right. Ikea is fucking _horrifying_. Never in his life did he think it was possible to see so much utterly useless crap packed wall to wall, let alone to see so many people buy into the fact that they absolutely needed a giant clipboard to prop up on their desk and hang art on. 

On second thought, he's pretty sure that he's seen that giant clipboard in Tim's loft. 

But because it's Tim, he probably built it himself out of Bat-grade material so it's not the same thing at all. 

He hopes. 

He's not really sure how he'd live with himself if he was sleeping with someone who accessorized from the Useless Pile of Crap section of Ikea. 

Jason shakes himself and strides towards the bed frame section, heading towards the very end of the row to note down the number of the cheapest option before heading down to buy it. 

It's possible that he made a point of doing this on a day when he knew that Tim would be in meetings all day at Wayne Enterprises because if Tim knew he was going to buy a new bed, he'd shoehorn his way in and wind up buying something absurd and expensive and make that face that says "my Tim logic beats all other logic," insisting that it's the practical thing to do since he'll be using it just as much anyways. 

And maybe so but it's Jason's shitty apartment and Jason's shitty bedroom and Jason can buy his own goddamn bed, thanks. 

He's got maybe five hours to haul this thing back to his place and put it together but he figures hey, it's just a bed. He'll barely need even half that. 

\--- 

(It takes him the entire five hours). 

\---

"Fucking piece of shit," Jason says, heaving his mattress onto the new bed frame and collapsing onto the ground next to it. It's taken him several innovative uses of his vigilante tool kit, a couple of time outs to pace around his apartment swearing in a variety of languages including but not limited to: Russian, German and Spanish, and a break to make himself empanadas in between but it's finally finished and he thinks, reasonably structurally sound. 

His front door slams, the sound of Tim's expensive dress shoes clicking across the hardwood floor letting him know that Tim is headed his way. He can picture it already, doesn't have to see it to know it -- Tim, in his suit, loosening his tie with one hand and working at a knot on his neck with the other, fingers kneading at tense skin and Jason shifts, tension crawling its way up his spine. It's been -- well, it's been a few days, almost a week, really, since the day they broke the bed. 

Jason's been sleeping with the mattress on the floor ever since because he was too busy to bother with replacing the bed frame but between the way his back's been aching and the coming of the weekend -- of free time and no work and _Tim_ , it seemed as good a time as any to get a move on. 

"Hey," Tim says, leaning against the door frame and Jason was right, feels a sort of thrill at it to see the way Tim's tie is already undone. "Finally replaced it, huh?" 

"What do you mean, finally?" Jason scoffs. "How do you know this hasn't been here since Monday? You got cameras in my apartment, Drake?"

Tim arches an eyebrow. "Would I tell you if I did?" 

Jason crosses his arms across his chest and levels Tim with a look. "Yes. You would. Or else I would kick your ass."

"You're right, I would," Tim admits. "No cameras. Not _yet_ anyways. But the bubble wrap strewn around the floor was kind of a dead give away, Jay." 

Jason eyes the bubble wrap and cardboard piled in the corner next to his bookshelf and the collection of tools perched on top of his bedside table and shrugs. "What can I say. I do my best work close to deadlines." 

"And is it?" Tim says, crossing the room to stand next to Jason, kicking lightly at one of the bed posts. "Your best work, I mean." 

Jason looks up at Tim with a cheeky grin. "Want to find out?" 

"Maybe," Tim says. "Persuade me. What made you choose this one? Aside from the fact that you clearly spent no more than fifty bucks on it." 

"The headboard," Jason says simply. 

A slow grin crawls its way across Tim's face. "The headboard, huh?" 

"It's possible," Jason says, all feigned indifference, "that you've expressed the desire to uh, tie me up. I believe mentions of a gag were involved. I thought we might explore that option." 

"Yeah?" Tim says and there's a flush high in his cheeks that makes Jason smirk and it's a stupid, endearing thing how Tim can be so sure of what he wants but when you actually give him the chance to have it, he goes all pink.

"Help me up?" Jason says, holding out a hand for Tim to grab a hold of. It's another way that they are different -- Jason's hands are large and knobby, too many broken knuckles and closed fist fights in his younger years. Tim's are calloused, yes, but long and thin -- artist's hands, Jason's always thought, and it's a funny thing how Tim can use those hands to break bones as easily as he can to set Jason alight, make him scream in all the right ways. Tim helps him up and Jason lifts to his feet, likes the way it gets him up in Tim's space, close enough to touch but not all the way there yet, not until Tim shakes his head, a fond smile curling at the corner of his mouth, before he steps up on his tiptoes, one hand coming up to cup Jason's jaw before kissing him, tentative and slow, more of a hello you're here than anything else. 

But then Tim kisses him again, with purpose, kisses him right up until the edge of the bed before pushing him onto it and following him down. 

It's good, this thing that they have going here. He could say that it's always been good but it'd be a bit of a lie, a kind untruth to paper over the fumblings, the first steps when neither of them really knew what they were doing, the times when it was more likely that he'd get one of Tim's bony elbows to the gut than anything else, but. He likes that too. He likes that they had to learn each other, that how they move out in the field wasn't always a blueprint for how they move in the bedroom, an awkward two-step told through Jason's defiant bluster and Tim's sharply self-deprecating humor. 

In a perverse sort of way, it feels earned that they had to struggle every step of the way. They've been just about everything two people could be to each other -- stranger, enemy, almost brother, reluctant ally, friend. It helps Jason trust it. If it was too easy, it would scare him, this place inside of him that's been carved out where Tim has made himself at home. 

If it was too easy, he'd have fucked it up a long time ago. 

Tim shucks off his suit jacket, tossing it across the room, where it lands on top of a lampshade, before leaning down, capturing Jason's lips in a kiss while impatient hands tug at the hem of Jason's shirt, pulling it up as they break the kiss long enough to pull the shirt all the way off, Jason swearing when his left arm gets stuck. "Damnit, _every time_ ," Jason huffs and Tim just laughs, leans down and grazes his teeth along Jason's neck and they are both unavoidably, unforgivably hard and the tension is at the too much/not enough point, the point where he doesn't know if he wants this to go, go, go or take its time except. 

Except the bed won't stop creaking and groaning. 

"Are you sure you put this together right?" 

"Yes, I'm sure," Jason says, huffing impatiently. "I can put together a bed, Tim, I'm not an idiot." 

"I know you're not -- " Tim blows out a breath, exhaling loudly through his nose. "I just don't think that it's supposed to be making those noises. You do remember what happened last time, right?" 

Jason resettles his hands on Tim's hips, resigning himself to the fact that they're both apparently going to completely ignore their hard-ons in favor of discussing the structural integrity of his new fifty dollar bed frame. 

"Yeah but the _old_ bed came with the apartment when I moved in, so fuck knows how old it was or how it was put together. This bed is precisely twenty minutes old and I put it together myself." 

"You followed the instructions and everything?" 

Jason snorts. "C'mon, Tim. I can build _bombs_ , I think I can handle an Ikea bed." 

"So, you _didn't_ follow the directions." 

"Really," Jason says, rubbing circles into Tim's hipbone with his thumbs, causing the skin beneath to dimple and shudder, "we're gonna do this now?" 

"No," Tim says, breath catching, "guess not," and Jason rolls them over, presses Tim into the mattress and kisses him, long and deep, one hand working at undoing the other boy's fly and it would have been good, right then, except the act of rolling them over caused the bed to let out a long, exaggerated creaking noise and Tim places a halting hand on Jason's chest. 

"Yeah, okay," Tim says. "We're gonna do this now. Get your tool kit." 

\--- 

"How the fuck." 

Tim has the Ikea directions in one hand and a screwdriver in the other and he's staring at the bed frame, which is in so many pieces around him because he'd insisted upon taking it apart and doing the whole thing himself from the beginning. 

But no, he's definitely _definitely_ not a control freak, Jason would never suggest such a thing because that would just be completely off-base. 

"Seriously, Jay, how the fuck is this supposed to work?" 

"Did you miss the part where I told you that this took me five hours?" 

Tim looks between the bed frame pieces and the instructions and makes a despairing, agonized face, a fact that says "I'm regretting all of my life choices right now and I'm not sure which one is the worst." 

For Jason's money, it was the urge to completely dismantle the bed frame at 9 o'clock at night that was probably right about where Tim went wrong. 

" _Five hours?_ " 

Jason shrugs. "I did take a break in between to make empanadas." 

Tim perks up. "Have any leftovers?" 

"You know, you're like a dog that's constantly reliant upon others because you can't provide food for yourself, you do know that, right?"

Tim waves a hand. "Of course I can provide food for myself, I have a phone, don't I? That's what take-out is for." 

"Spoiled brat." 

"You know," Tim starts, pointing the screwdriver in Jason's direction. "You know what would probably help me figure this out faster?" 

"Let me guess," Jason says, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Empanadas?" 

Tim just raises both eyebrows at him. 

"Yeah, yeah, okay," Jason says, walking into the kitchen to fetch his leftovers from the fridge, throwing them onto a plate and heating them up in the microwave for a minute or so before bringing them into the bedroom and setting the plate down next to Tim. 

Tim picks one up and takes a bite, letting out a loud moan of appreciation. There's crumbs scattered across his bottom lip, crumbs that Jason wants to lean over and lick off and he's thinking that they really should revisit the whole "fuck it, have sex on the floor" option. 

"No, we're not having sex on the floor," Tim says idly, holding the instructions up in front of him, squinting at the sheet of paper because the stubborn fucker refuses to get up to get his glasses. 

"I didn't say anything!" 

"Right," Tim says but there's that fond smile curling at the corner of his lips again and maybe Jason's not quite as annoyed as he could be. 

"Maybe if instead of making this a one-man mission while I watch you glare at the instructions sheet, we could actually and stop me if this sounds like too much, _princeling_ , but we could try and put it together _together_." 

Tim shrugs, setting the instructions down. 

"Fuck it. How bad could it go?" 

\--- 

(Famous last words). 

\--- 

There's a loud pounding on the door that shakes Jason out of mid-rant. "Is that…is that a knock?" 

"No, Jason, it's the walls talking back," Tim snaps out. His hair is sticking up in all directions because of how many times he's run his hands through it in the past hour and his eyes have a bright, wild look to them that's honestly, a little bit terrifying but Jason is probably no better, he thinks, except he _is_ because unlike Tim, he is _right_ and that wood slat is supposed to fit in that way. 

Jason shoots Tim a glare before stomping out towards the door, throwing it open with a snapped, "was?" before shaking himself and readjusting to the sight of his next door neighbor, a sharp elderly woman named Kumiko that he's borrowed eggs from a couple of times. 

Right. He and Tim have spent the better part of the last hour snapping at each other in just about every language they both know. 

"Sorry, uh. Sorry. Is everything okay?" 

" _Is_ everything okay?" Kumiko asks. "I've heard shouting for the past hour. I will call the cops if necessary. Know that I don't want to -- it's not like I trust them but you know what they say, when you ignore something bad happening, you're just as bad as the people who did the bad thing." 

Jason sinks against the door jamb, running a tired hand across his face. "No, uh, -- Christ, _no_ , sorry. We're, uh, we're trying to build a bed and it's not exactly going well." 

"Ah," Kumiko says, as if that explains everything when probably it really, _really_ doesn't. "Ikea?" 

"How'd you guess?" Jason says, grinning crookedly. 

"May I make a suggestion?" 

"Please do." 

"Duct tape," Kumiko says simply. 

"That….that is a good suggestion, fuck," Jason says because really, fuck, how didn't they think of that before. "Thanks." 

"You're welcome. Good luck. And…remember. The cops. I will call." 

Jason shakes his head. "No, uh, that won't be necessary. Thank you."

Kumiko nods before crossing over to her front door and letting herself in, as Jason throws his own front door shut and sinks against it. " _Duct tape_." 

Jason crosses over to the bedroom and looks down at the mostly assembled bed, except for the wooden slat that Tim is holding out because he can't decide if it's really supposed to go where the instructions say it's supposed to go. "Hey, princeling." 

"Will you _stop_ calling me that?" Tim snaps. 

Jason rolls his eyes, contemplating for about half a minute calling Tim "princeling" again just to see what he'd do before deciding that in the war between how badly he wants to get some sleep and how badly he wants to push Tim's buttons, sleep is winning by just a little bit. 

"Duct tape." 

Tim looks up. "We're idiots." 

"Yeeeeep." 

Tim unfolds himself from the floor before moving towards Jason's bookshelf, undoing the slat to the secret compartment where they store some odds and ends Bat tools, reaching a hand in and pulling out a roll of duct tape. 

"If this doesn't do the trick, I don't know what will." 

"Is that -- is that _Bat duct tape_?"

"I made the modifications myself," Tim says, "and yes, yes it is, and no, do not make whatever stupid joke you're thinking of making right now." 

Jason closes his mouth shut and glares, sullenly, as Tim eyes the entire bed frame from every angle before proceeding to get to work at taping all of the crucial hinges and slats together. He watches as Tim works, smoothly and methodically, watches the line of Tim's forearms as he measures out tape and cuts it swiftly with a straight edge knife and yeah, okay, so he's long since made his peace with the fact that it gets him hot and bothered to see Tim in his element, to see that look in his eyes when he's completely in control of a situation and to take that look, to take that which is usually left to the rooftops and the alleyways, to the fight and the mission, and to see it _here_ , well. 

"All done," Tim says and Jason steps forward to help him lift the mattress onto the bed frame. Wordlessly, they both collapse backwards onto the bed and the bed -- miraculously, the bed is mostly quiet. 

"Better, princeling?" 

Tim reaches over and pinches Jason on the arm. "Much." 

Tim turns so that he's lying on his side facing Jason, bringing them closer on the already too-small bed and leans over, fingers grazing the waistband of Jason's jeans, dipping just below and he's been on edge all night, even when they were fighting, even when Tim was pissing him off so bad he kind of wanted to throw a screwdriver at Tim's head, and it's such a little thing but it sends him straight back, cycling right back around to wanting. 

"So. We still testing this out?" 

"Yeah," Jason says, and Tim is so-close, punch-drunk and all the way there with him, already working on pushing down Jason's jeans. "Just let me get the gag."

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest apologies to Ikea. I love Ikea. I think it's grand. They have excellent throw pillows. Please don't sue me for libel, I think you're grand, it's not my fault these two can't follow instructions.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] i spend my money on the regular miracles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690786) by [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




End file.
